


The Son of Chaos

by Poi



Category: Blade (1998)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poi/pseuds/Poi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a god, it turned out, was pretty dull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Son of Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> Written for circeniko in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge. Many thanks to alestar for beta and handholding.

Things got interesting again at the ball, Frost's first of the season. He surveyed the room, bored already. He'd done things properly - why not? - marble floors, chandeliers. No expense spared, whatever. He'd even felt a frisson of excitement during the research, the preparations, getting the details right. Details were important. And it was an impressive fucking room.

Massively less interesting now it was filled though, mostly with minor vampires and walking, talking food, some of it even smart enough to be scared. A few of the guests were old enough to be comfortable wearing the elaborate suits and dresses, another handful confident enough to fake it well; most of them looked awkward or amused at their costumes, tugging at their bustles and cravats like children playing dress up.

They might as well get used to it, he decided suddenly, viciously. Yeah, this would be the fashion for a long fucking time. Why not?

Silk, velvet, satin, linen. Tulle, lace, muslin, embroidered everything. He'd done his fucking research. Corsets, empire waists, frock coats, knee high riding boots. Horses. Fuck it, maybe he'd ban cars. Why the fuck not?

A proper regard for etiquette. Not that everyone wasn't already polite to him; warily, smilingly, constantly polite.

Being a god, it turned out, was pretty dull.

***

Oh, sure, it had been fun at first. Walking in daylight again, that was cool. Turning people with a touch, if he chose: hilarious. Especially if he did in daylight. The annihilation of his enemies, the fulfilment of all his hopes, etcetera, etcetera; mayhem, destruction, enormous wealth, blah, blah, blah.

Everything he'd ever wanted.

It had gotten old surprisingly fast.

Apparently he was looking as sociable as he felt; everyone who met his gaze smiled nervously and headed in the opposite direction. No-one he wanted to talk to, nothing he wanted to fuck. Nothing to eat. Well, the redhead maybe. He smiled at her and raised his glass. Hilariously, she looked flattered.

Through the crowd he spotted Melody, her hurry at odds with the pains everyone else was making towards period appropriate elegance, the long strides making the dress flap unattractively. His eyes narrowed. Neither her beautifully coiffed hair nor her clutching hand entirely hid the slim black headset she was wearing.

"Melody, sweetheart," he said gently as she reached him, "what the fuck did I say about anachronisms?"

"You -- you said you'd rip the throat out of anyone who brought one tonight but --"

"Is a little historical accuracy really so goddamn much to ask?" He threw the rest of his drink back; _Rosa Solis_: sundew, rare spices, flecks of pure gold, frustration.

"No, sir, I'm sorry, but --"

"I mean, I know, I get where you're coming from, okay? Just because a slavish attention to historical detail made me a god is no reason to make a whole fucking lifestyle out of it, right?"

She took a careful step back, watching him like a snake. "But there's someone trying to break in --"

"Wow, well, now I'm absolutely fucking terrified." He snapped a hand out, yeah, like a _snake_, to pull her close, whisper in her ear. "Aren't you?"

"But -- they're saying it's --"

The door splintered open, a body flew through it, bringing the room to a silent, gape-mouthed standstill. Sinclair Lawson, an astonished look on his face and a silver stake in his chest, shivered to dust against the side of the bar.

"Blade," Deacon breathed. Anticipation ran electric through his body, hotter than lust. A shudder ran down his fingers; they opened and let Melody go.

He needed one more breath to pull his composure back, pull his gaze from his scowling gatecrasher. "You can tell the chamber octet we won't be needing them after all," he said, voice lazy and even.

"Hey, everyone! Can I have your attention please." He did, of-course, completely and immediately, even against Blade's competing charms and big ass crossbow. "Look who it is! Blade the vampire slayer, come to kill us all!" He smiled benignly at the room. "Let's all give him a warm welcome."

Nobody moved. At least not until Blade waved his shiny sword -- he'd got a new one, looked nice -- around in a big circle, taking three heads with one swing. "Cue screaming and running about," Deacon murmured, quelling the urge to cut straight to the climactic showdown. He forced himself to lean back, instead, and watch the show.

"Behold the people's hero, friends, undaunted in the face of superior strength and numbers. Watch him run! Watch him jump! Watch him -- ooh, leap onto the bar, leap _off_ the bar, bankshot a boomerang off a column -- don't chip the marble, you fucker! -- somebody get me another fucking drink, just watching this shit is making me tired."

"Yes, sir," Melody squeaked, took two steps towards the bar and then threw herself into an alcove as another crossbow bolt flew elegantly past.

"Hey, Blade, there's a fucking dress code, you know? I'm only making an exception for you since you obviously killed all the fucking bouncers," he added.

The guy still dressed like he'd mugged a leather queen, but you had to admit he had style. The coat, especially -- still had the coat -- that was a sexy motherfucking coat. In fact, "Hey, Melody," he called out, "Make a note, honey. I want a coat like that one."

"Yes, s--" She was cut off with a yelp by one of Blade's flying silver stake things. He sighed and stepped to the side as another one lodged in the wall next to him.

"... okay, Isabelle? You got that, right?"

"Coat like that one. I'll get right on it," she said brightly, and ducked out of the room, stepping over Melody's ashes without a glance down.

It was lucky, Deacon reflected, that vampires turned to dust on execution. Otherwise his beautiful new ballroom would already be kind of a dump.

Blade always did like to make a mess. Went back to his childhood, probably. A desperate plea for attention or something. Possibly if Deacon hadn't killed his mom and turned her into a vampire, he'd be less filled with rage and --

"Okay, that's a fucking Thomas Hope chair -- shit."

She'd been really hot though.

The remains of the chair caught fire.

***

What with one thing and another he hadn't seen Blade since his Rising.

Taking over the world was time consuming; still, it had felt strange not to know what he was doing, where he was, who he was obsessed with that wasn't Deacon Frost. Felt like victory that Blade stuck to lesser evils, too scared to come after him directly again. He got reports occasionally about his heroic resistance efforts -- the silver bomb in LA had probably been him; the Underground Railway funnelling humans to Australia. Not a lot of vampires in Australia, and who could fucking blame them?

But he looked good. Nowhere near as old as he should look, if he were human, but who the hell knew how Daywalkers aged.

He'd gotten even better at fighting too; faster, stronger. Didn't bother grandstanding or posing much anymore, but his sheer efficiency was really very beautiful. Couldn't be much human left in him at all, given the rate he was cutting through the guest list.

His opponents were somewhat hampered by their unfamiliar clothes, lack of weapons and, well, stupidity, but they did outnumber him 200 to 1, you'd think they could put up more of a fight.

Maybe he should be more supportive. Doubtless a few words of encouragement from their loving and benevolent god would boost morale.

"Come on, Laurence! Give it some boot, man. That's the -- oh well, never mind." Laurence reached out to him desperately from underneath the crystal chandelier, limbs waving like a trapped beetle. Deacon sighed, and waved genially back. "I designed those myself, you know. Beautiful workmanship. What a fucking waste."

Isabelle slid up beside him, anachronistic Kevlar vest over her ball gown. Since she was carrying a tray of drinks, he indulgently decided not to mention it. "Thanks, babe. Give yourself a raise. And get me some popcorn while you're at it, this could take a while."

"Yes, sir."

Blade ripped through another seven vampires without even glancing over; sword, sword, crossbow, wire, sword, garlic-mace, sword, but Deacon knew it was all for him. _You're just another dead vampire_ he'd said to Deacon once, but now here he was; cutting down his people and setting his ballroom on fire like he was putting on a fucking mating dance.

Deacon ate two handfuls of popcorn, one historically inaccurate kernel at a time -- one per pile of dust -- before people started hanging back, looking miserably to him for guidance.

He waved them away, made a mental note to maybe kill them all later and get some better minions. A whole country to choose from -- a whole fucking planet -- and this was the best he could do? Fucking embarrassing.

Still, he did pretty well choosing his enemies and he grinned in open, honest pleasure at his all time, number one, favourite. "Blade! Buddy! You looked so good out there, man. Set my heart all aflutter." He tapped his fingers over his silent chest. "Sorry I forgot to send you an invite."

Blade said nothing. Hell, he was hardly even sweating. Deacon felt filled with affection for him; his silver capped boots, his holy water, all his hidden pockets and secret battle plans. Maybe he'd brought something special, something just for Deacon. A brand new toy. It wouldn't be enough, no matter how good he'd gotten. Couldn't ever be, now. Deacon ached for the fight anyway.

"I've really missed you, Eric, you know that? And hell, man, I never got a chance to thank you for all your help!" A theatrical sweep of his arm to indicate the ruined room. "King of the world, thanks to you." That got a shadow of a grimace. Barely discernible from his regular expression, but Deacon could tell. Deacon could get to him.

"Hey, don't look so grumpy -- I'll give you a free shot! As many as you like, even. I owe you, after all," and flung his arms wide, pressed his back hungrily against the wall, more than ready for the main feature to start.

But Blade pulled a cloth out of his pocket, wiped the dust of, at Deacon's count, eighty-two vampires from his shiny, silver sword, and sheathed it.

Stood in front of him, hands flexing in his leather gloves, looking grimmer and more humourless than ever.

"I didn't come to fight," he said flatly. "I need your help."

And for the first time in years, Deacon Frost threw back his head and laughed out loud.

Godhood, finally, was looking up.


End file.
